The Change
by Monty Twain
Summary: Series of snapshots of Holmes and Watson's friendship rebuilding after the Hiatus. I have an infinite number of ideas for this, so I will be reposting often. Double drabble sized little things.
1. Caught

The Change

The Change

You might have noticed I have been AWOL for an era or so, so this is a sort of peace offering to the patient readers that still await the next chapter of Déjà vu, and it's also much more canonical than that as well for those who couldn't be bothered with Déjà vu, (I don't blame you, I rarely read other people's futuristic Holmes fics) and I feel it's a little more mainstream, in a good way.

It's set after EMPT, and it's a series of snapshots of their rebuilding their friendship. Oh yeah, and the chronology of the whole thing is going to be enough to cry over, so don't even try to make sense of it, leave that to me.

I'll stop rambling now. Thanks to KCS and KS for convincing me this was a good idea.

CH1: Caught: Watson's POV

After the Sebastian Moran affair, Holmes and I were very keen to catch up on each other's lives, to try to fill the three-year void which I felt had distanced us. This conversation kept us up nearly all night, and I was not remotely surprised to find myself in my old armchair, having slept sat up and fully clothed (even my shoes). I didn't open my eyes immediately. Part of me was dreading my probable headache. Most of me was dreading waking up in my own office chair and realising that this was a pleasant, yet tormenting, dream.

So I waited. I slowly became aware of my friend. Holmes was sat in the opposite armchair, but his breathing wasn't as heavy as when he slept. From what I remembered, Holmes didn't snore.

Satisfied that this wasn't a dream (I was sure I wouldn't be able to remember if Holmes snored before his reappearance the previous day) I opened my eyes…

And I stared right at Holmes'. To be honest, I was fairly startled. Holmes quickly looked away, and flushed slightly. He was embarrassed. Why?

I wondered this question for a moment, then smiled.

I had caught him looking at me.


	2. Sloshed

Sloshed: 3rd person- set the night before Caught

Sloshed: 3rd person- set the night before Caught. Sorry about that. I wanted to start with Caught.

Holmes looked at Watson, eyes twinkling in private amusement. Watson did not notice- he was using a knife to cut some candle wax he had picked off the champagne-bottle candleholder.

Watson was mumbling something about how much he had missed Holmes, while he reduced the wax to a fine powder. He didn't look up. He assumed Holmes wasn't listening. He got quieter and quieter, fading away to a whisper over the period of about ten minutes.

Holmes was smiling partly because he _was_ listening (and he was touched), partly because the whiskey he and Watson had been sharing was nearly all gone, but also because of how Watson was mumbling due tot the afore-mentioned whiskey.

Holmes passed his fingers through the candle's flame thoughtfully.

"Watson, are we drunk? Completely intoxicated?"

"…Is the room swaying for you as well?"

"So, yes, then."

"I don't know. I'd say we're, ah, what's the word?"

"Merry?"

"No, further down the line than that…"

"Tipsy?"

"No, much worse than that. It's a word Mrs Hudson uses."

"Sloshed?"

"That's the one."

"Sloshed? Really." Holmes laughed silently, sniffing through his nose, and Watson couldn't help but join him.


	3. Squirming

Squirming: Holmes' POV

Squirming: Holmes' POV. –back to after Caught again.

Watson had been dying to ask me if he could move in for three days. He could quite easily have given himself a cough from all the clearing of his throat he was doing, only to stare blankly and look down again.

That was the problem, really. We were starting from scratch- he was being too _formal_. It was like he _hadn't _known me for however long it was- thirteen years! Gosh, thirteen years.

It was a vicious circle, I suppose. I knew that the_ formality _thing could be fixed by his moving in, but he wouldn't ask to move in because he was being so damn polite.

Of course he _wanted _to move in. There was no question about that. I had used my cousin's name and bought his practise (a princely sum, I'll say,- but worth every penny.) and all had left now was his wife's old house, which from what I gathered was more a place of loneliness and coldness rather than fond reminiscence (he had been avoiding it- he had stayed over nearly every night for a week since my return from Europe) . Not at all up to Baker Street standards.

Though, he was a fairly loveable fool. It was definitely enjoyable to watch him squirming in his seat with uncertainty. I supposed I missed that affable and honest foolishness.

"Watson?"

"My dear Holmes."

"Do you want to move in?"


	4. Theft

This chapter is dedicated to KCS, for doing a favour or two. Hope you all like it!

Theft: Watson's POV

Holmes and I had decided to go out that weekend, to go and celebrate what I called jokingly "The Resurrection" and my return to Baker Street

Holmes and I had decided to go out that weekend, to go and celebrate what I called jokingly "The Resurrection" and my return to Baker Street. We found a quiet Italian restaurant across Regent's Park, who were more than happy to accept us with our news and treated us very well.

Holmes sat (instinctively with his back to the wall so he could see out to all the people) and his eyes glittered at me mischievously. "It is indeed like the old days."

"Very much so."

"London is still changing as it always did. It was a predictable thing for it to do, really, to change like that." He looked at the people on the table next to us as if they should have been recognisable.

"You still look the same, old chap. Though do I spot a grey hair or two?"

"Alas, I'm too proud to dye those flecks around my temples. Your observational skills are coming on a little, though Watson. That seems about all that has changed about you. I can still surprise you."

"You demonstrated that fairly well."

"That I did."

"Once would have been enough."

"I can still cajole you into coming out on dangerous errands."

"You can cajole me into doing a lot of things, I assure you. I take it I'm going to be the one paying?"

"If you would be so kind, Watson, I have been out of work for a long while, and that last case had no financial benefit."

"Very well."

A waiter came and took our order, interrupting us. Holmes looked up at him and smiled in a very odd way.

When he had gone, Holmes asked, "Can I really _cajole_ you so well?"

"Why?" I asked suspiciously.

"Oh, no reason. Just wondering."

Our food came quickly, Holmes picking some skimpy pasta dish (it didn't even have any meat) and I had risotto. There were only brief pauses to eat, however, Holmes hardly allowed me to eat for all his talk. At one point, the outer edge of my plate had gone stone cold in between mouthfuls. Holmes himself seemed to be wasting my money, and I had to nag him to even eat half of the bowl in front of him.

When our neighbours' puddings came on a trolley, Holmes looked at me daringly.

"Watson?"

"Yes?"

"Will you chat to that good waiter for a while?"

"Why?"

"Does it matter? I just need to do something." He got up. "Oh, and get the bill." He picked up his long coat and he left me there, heading towards the edge of the room, where the doors to the toilets and kitchens were. I hardly had any time; however, the waiter was beginning to leave.

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Um, this was the best pasta my friend has ever tried."

"Thank you, sir. I'll be sure to tell the chef." He started to leave again. Desperate, I grabbed the poor man's sleeve.

"Can you tell me what it is that is so, um, tomatoey, in the sauce?"

"The tomatoes, sir."

"Can you tell me the other ingredients?"

"Not really, sir, it's not good for business-"

"But my friend, it's his birthday soon, and I want our housemaid to be able to cook it…" I saw the expression of my captive, and knew I would have very little luck. But out of the corner of my eye I saw Holmes crossing the restaurant.

"No, sir, I'm afraid not. Could you not bring him here for the celebrations?"

"…What celebrations?"

"The birthday, sir."  
"Ssh, you don't want to ruin the surprise, here he comes!"

"Sorry sir."

Holmes was now just within earshot. He was trying very hard not to laugh at me, I could see. "Have you not asked for the bill, yet, Watson?" He was wearing his coat, and was clearly anticipating my having been ready to go when he came back. What the deuce he had wanted me to talk to the waiter for, I didn't know.

"No, Holmes. Sorry."

The waiter straightened up, and I relinquished my grip from his sleeve. "I'll go and get it, sir."

He came back very quickly, and in a minute we were outside, the poor man probably glad to be rid of us.

"Care to explain, Holmes?"

"Explain what?"

I frowned at him.

"I honestly don't know what you are talking about, Watson."

We carried on walking and I left the topic alone, clearly one of Holmes' eccentricities.

When we got into our rooms, I sat in my armchair while Holmes put away his coat and hat.

"Watson, Watson, what shall we do now?" he said, sitting in his own armchair, reaching with his long arms to the Persian slipper to get tobacco (he had had to refill it- the three year old tobacco had tasted awful). He lit his pipe, and by the light of the match, I saw him properly.

He was wearing a waiter's outfit.

"Holmes?"

"Well, I didn't need to persuade you much to be my accomplice in petty theft."

"Theft?"

"Well, you were distracting the only waiter on duty- it was very quiet, no?- while I went to the kitchens and stole a waiter's outfit. I needed a new disguise. Do you remember when I told you I had a number of guises throughout London, like the old sea captain? Well, now they are quite out of date. So I needed a new one, and not in the same place. Hence the suit. It fits quite well."

"But Holmes, how did you get it out?"

"I was wearing it."

"No you- oh, under the coat."

"Precisely."


	5. Shaken: Holmes' POV

The needle had cut me, and now my lungs dropped onto my stomach. I shuddered. Were my hands normally so white? Did they normally shake? I was suddenly gradually sat down on the floor of my bedroom. Too fast. Stationary. Back against the wall. It was cold. I shivered, but that was the only way I knew. I didn't move, but the room lurched ahead of me.

Cello music (Watson's voice.) I let it play. Major key. Slow.

I screwed my eyes up and the desk leg at eye level pawed the floor restlessly.

"I'm fine, Watson." I did _believe _in truth, but I lied a great deal.

Artificial light- yellow. Black everywhere else. I was white, though. I scratched an itch on my shoulder. I scratched too hard. I started to slide to the right or to the left. To the floor.

The cello sounded concerned now. Pizzicato. A heartbeat (knock on the door). Blood running fast, like a waterfall. Reichenbach. Coming in waves. High tide. Drum roll (rap on the door).

What was going on behind the door? I asked my limbs politely to move, but they didn't. I didn't want to be rude- I didn't move them without asking.

Knock. Knock. Cello falling down the stairs.

The door falling down on me. My limbs move without asking me.

"I'm fine, Watson." Non sequitur. He didn't believe me. I was lying, anyway.

Suddenly, I saw him. He put his hands in his pockets roughly. He pulled me up. His eyes were dead. I looked at them for a long time.

Then there was anger. Nothing I'd ever seen before. He grabbed my arm. White marks (white _again)_ on top of the other assorted stigma. He shouted at me.

"HOLMES!"

I wished he would stop that. But then, he was a good man. He had a kind face (it fell). A disillusioned face. Broken. Crushed. The disappointment crashed down like a penny.


	6. Shaken: Watson's POV

I don't believe I have ever been truly angry with Holmes before in my life. But now, I felt like striking my best friend. I grabbed his arms, felt those horrid holes.

"HOLMES!" I shouted at him some more- some things I regret saying and I hope Holmes doesn't remember now. His face looked back with some vague recognition- like he was seeing a relative at a funeral he had only met before at a wedding. He stared at me.

"Stop that. I'm fine, Watson. I'm fine."

He was watching me now, watching my eyes. For a second he seemed to clear. He seemed sorry. A second. I wanted to just pull my Holmes out this intoxicated Holmes. Strip them apart and banish this Holmes. Put him in a cab to The Bar of Gold on Swindon Lane and leave him there for ever. I sighed.

"Holmes…" I couldn't speak. I was shaking. Shaken.

Mrs Hudson came through, looking worried. "I heard shouting from downstairs… Are you alright, Doctor?" I must have looked worse than Holmes. "You rarely raise your voice. Would you like something to quiet your nerves? And you, Mr Holmes?"

"No," I said for him. Still holding his forearms, I led him to a chair and sat down. I accepted the brandy she handed to me, but was too worked up to sit down. She left after a time of staring from the silent Holmes to me. Holmes seemed to be coming around. I waited. Second drink. Third drink.

Holmes' eyes became slowly sharper. Finally, he looked at me. "Watson."

I didn't answer.

"Watson…" I closed my eyes. Which Holmes was speaking to me? "…What have I done?" I opened them and saw, to my surprise, Holmes with his head in his hands.

"You've shaken me. That's all."

"That's not all. You… _shouted_ at me. I must have been…"

"I was very worried. I thought you'd… outdone yourself. You were groaning. You didn't seem-" I said slowly, distasted as I was by the word "-satisfied. You were unhappy. Scared." Holmes' eyes were wide, glittering in the light of the fire through his fingers. "This wasn't how I remembered it." Holmes breathed out slowly, hitched slightly. I was terrified he might cry.

"You know how," he said carefully, "We always argue over things like politics?"

I had no idea where this was going. "…Yes?"

"Well, whenever something that matters happens, you are _always_ on my side. Whether I'm good or bad or right or wrong. I just want you to know that I know that." He looked up at me, perfectly serious. His eyes softened and he stared into the fire.

I swallowed.

He continued: "I've just done the most regrettable thing that I can recall. I have scared you. And for that I am truly –_truly_- sorry."

"You won't do it again." I stated it as fact.

"No. You have my word of honour, Watson." His voice thinned out to a whisper in those last few syllables.

I looked him right in the eye. "Then you are forgiven." We stared at each other for a long moment, before I smiled and poured him a glass of water.


	7. The Shadow

Watson hadn't seen my face, and I didn't want him to see it

Watson hadn't seen my face, and I didn't want him to see it. He kept his eyes on as my brother spoke, and when Mycroft had made his excuses, he was still watching me warily.

I slowly met his gaze, reluctant to reveal the turmoil that must have reflected on my features.

For a moment, I simply concentrated on his eyes. I saw the years of age in a tree-trunk. Years and years, too many to count. Years of being a doctor. Years of knowing trouble when he saw it. Years of knowing me.

But as I stared, I was simply intimidated by his brutal gentleness, relentless understanding. I turned away.

My feet traced the bricks as I walked slowly further up the station, the smoke and steam swallowing me. I ignored the first, hesitant step behind me. It stopped. I couldn't hear my friend's sigh, I felt it. I kept walking. I didn't want to be followed.

As I approached the steps down to the opposite side of the platform, I heard him half call my name.

"Go home, Watson. I'll see you then." My voice was thin. Scrapey, like a violin.

I walked as fast as I could down the steps before I broke into a run.

My shadow ran, too. The noise span around the tunnel, rolled over and over. The sustain pedal on the piano. I stopped and waited for the note to fade.

My shadow put his hand on my shoulder. I can't get rid of him.


	8. Still

Alright, alright, I've got my hands up, shoot me, ah, you got me.

I've not dropped you, forgot you or anything. There's just too much **stuff** at the moment. Somebody's been taking up my time more than I would normally allow, if you get me, and I've had examinations, work experience, I've been banned from the net and I went to a party for which I have been paying nightly installments for my sleep debt ever since. So yeah, I'm busy. KCS will tell you I haven't stopped writing, but you know, Life is getting in the way of Art, as Oscar Wilde would say. Let's hope that in working within limits the master reveals himself.

Still

I could hear him trying to be quiet again. I'd seen him glance at that dreadful picture of the Falls in the afternoon; I'd watched him ignore his food and I'd put a blanket over his shoulders when he'd sat and brooded until after nightfall. Moriarty wasn't dead- he lived on in Holmes. He haunted him. I saw Holmes remember that whenever he laughed.

I couldn't believe this **still** happened. I was waiting for this to die down. I didn't want to speak of Reichenbach; it was taboo between us for we shared a lump in our throats when we came close. God help us if we were to actually talk of it. I imagined two middle-aged gentlemen crying in the moonlight at a mutual nightmare.

His ceiling had to be as bare as mine, as featureless and grey. It acted as a canvass for bad thoughts, and images flew at me. I knew we would have to get up and smoke sooner or later.

The cold floor seeped through my feet. They quickly became the only part of me that was numb, for the rest of me was deafened by my noisy clothing rubbing together and the ear-splitting unsticking of the doorknob.

By the time I had loudly silently walked into the living room, Holmes had heard me and had got up. He too seemed to flinch as he unscrewed the whiskey bottle at the racket he was making.

I sat in my armchair, and Holmes put my glass in my hand and sat in the armchair opposite. We drank.

"What time is it?" he asked, his voice scraping against the sides of his throat as it crept out.

"I think it's about quarter to three," I said, desperately trying to be nonchalant. Instead, my voice broke.

"You should go to sleep."

"You should sleep, full stop. You don't anymore."

"I tried my hardest not to wake you if I was awake."

"I can hear you much worse when you try to be still. Human beings move even if they are sleeping."

"I assumed you'd make an exception for me." He tried to laugh, but realising the context we were in, fell silent.

We talked.

I'd never seen Holmes break down before, not ever. He seemed to disappear into the lapels of his dressing gown, his face went red, and he sobbed in a high-pitched splutter. I tasted my own tears and the whiskey mixed with them, a salty, alcoholic foul drink, but the glass was good to hide behind.

We sat, two middle-aged gentlemen crying in the moonlight at a mutual nightmare.


	9. Better

I was at my club when the telegraph boy jogged into the room

Holmes-

I gave him fifteen minutes. Five to receive and read it, five to apologise to **them**, and five to _come home_.

Watson-

I was at my club when the telegraph boy jogged into the room. He looked suspiciously like an Irregular, but I couldn't be sure- there are so many of them around.

"Doctor Watson, an urgent telegram for you."

My fellows looked at each other- it was a running joke that I kept on being called away either to Holmes or my patients. I had actually asked Holmes not to telegram me whilst I was at a game for fear of the slight embarrassment it caused. Of course, this meant that even more telegrams were sent at inopportune moments.

I took it from the boy and it read as follows:

END THE SILLY GAME AND COME TO BAKER STREET STOP THE MAN TO YOUR RIGHT IS CHEATING ANYWAY STOP I'M OPENING A BOTTLE OF BRANDY AND FRIGHTFULLY BORED STOP HURRY OVER BEFORE IT EVAPOURATES STOP

YOUR BETTER FRIEND HOLMES FULL STOP

I suppressed a laugh- that boy was certainly an Irregular then, though he had already disappeared so I couldn't telegraph an excuse back. Holmes had employed someone to watch me and the other players. The scoundrel! I caught my grin before it hit the surface.

It was my turn to bet. My 'friends' watched me carefully, but they did not enjoy my company. They watched me for my cards, they watched carefully in case I was cheating. If my mood were to change, they would pick up on it quicker than Holmes or at least react quicker, but they wouldn't be concerned. If I were to seem agitated they would quite possibly rejoice- it meant my cards were bad. I gazed at the expectant faces and cleared my throat. "I'm sorry, chaps, but I must leave."

"Are you being called out on a case?" asked the one Holmes claimed to be a cheater.

"No, I have a patient to go and see. He needs to see me immediately."

"Don't you ever take time off from your patients, Wilson?" asked another player. I decided not to correct him.

"Not really, no."

My chair scraped on the floor noisily as I got up, put on my old coat and left the warm, quiet room, and a couple of people looked over at me with an air of superiority. '_**They**__ wouldn't scrape the chair if it were __**them**__, and __**their**__ coats are not old, and __**their **__work does not call __**them**__ out at night. __**They**__ are not doctors. __**They **__do not understand,_' I thought. I stepped out into the foggy night air and pretended not to run home to my better friend.


	10. Watson's Watch

Today is Watson's 50th birthday

Today is Watson's 50th birthday. I've let him sleep now for several hours- it's eleven, and now I'm fairly impatient. He will miss lunch at this rate. He might miss his half-century run, not out. I haven't scored a wicket on him, I haven't run him out. It's quite a mystery how he's pulled through.

Detection is beginning to lose its appeal. I can no-longer save London- it's very vulgar, loud and harmless. The old criminals are now enjoying themselves far too much. I shan't tell the _old_ boy though- I doubt I'll retire.

"Oh there's Sleeping Beauty."

A frown. "Morning."

"Nearly afternoon, Olde boy."

A pause. "Well."

"Happy Returns. You really are aged now."

"Oh, be quiet, Holmes. Breakfast?"

I'm silent for a moment. I smile at him.

"Well? Speak, man!"

"Sorry, I was being quiet. Respecting my elders."

A sigh. "Breakfast, Holmes?"

"Twas put away. There is however a box of chocolates on the table for you from Mrs. Hudson."

Watson turned and looked at my present a box of expensive cigars and a smallish cardboard box. He ignored the sweets, put a cigar in his mouth and brought the box over to me.

"Is this your doing?"

"Yes." He leaned his chin toward me and I lit his cigar. His eyes widened slightly. I have to admit, I'm not one with a particular talent for gift buying.

"It's heavy."

"That it is, but I thought you might like that about it."

He opened it. It was a largish silver pocket-watch Watson was worth gold, but I couldn't stop a petty thief from stealing it then with rather attractive engravings. It had Watson's name printed on the inside of the lid, and the face was clear.

"It's beautiful, Holmes." He meant it. I leaned with my apish arms and took one of Watson's cigars I _had_ boughtthem from the table, and Watson didn't notice, so enthralled was he by his real present.

"Thank you."

"My dear Watson, you are welcome."

"Now I have a watch from both of my brothers." At that I had to look down slightly- I had flushed with the warm smoke falling around me.


	11. At Ease

HE reclined on the settee with his feet on the coffee table, and I sat next to him so that I could read by the light from the window. We remained like that more than an hour in an innate silence. Sometimes we didn't need to talk.

I was occupied by Dickens, but he had nothing to entertain him but the light as it moved to half-light on the bookshelf, the mantelpiece, the desk, and our feet beginning to share shadows.

When I dozed off he must have caught the book, for I cannot remember placing it over the side of the settee, and when I woke, he was still there. I squinted to watch him and wondered what he was thinking about, and in my mind I tried to describe his features [**the eyes rested like a moth on a flower, lids opening and closing like wings, and when closed one imagined them in flight anyway**] but the thing was he wasn't observing anything.


	12. A Theory

Lestrade stood unassumingly and calmly revealed the facts about a cold murder, giving the clues and then telling Holmes how he had solved the case. He faltered often for fear Holmes might tell him he'd done something wrong, but he didn't interrupt him and nodded slowly through the narrative, indicating each move was correct.

"So what was the name of the murderer?"

"You think I convicted the right man?"

"Yes." Lestrade's eyes light up, but he regained composure quickly. He understood that he hadn't beaten Holmes; he'd merely been independent once. He stood and began to collect his coat and hat, placing his tumbler on my desk.

"It was… Milkman. Yes. George Milkman, that is, not his wife."

Holmes sighed heavily and grinned at me. At this I laughed.

Lestrade paused in the hall, probably wondering how we were mocking him now. It was quite unfair of him. "What is it, Mr Holmes?"

"Oh, nothing, Lestrade. Take care."

We waited until he'd left and Holmes sat heavily into his armchair. "Not _another_ 'M', Watson! How evil must a letter be before it drives a man to crime simply for it appearing in the poor fellow's initials?!"

"I wonder whether Moriarty would have been doubly devious had his Christian name been Matthew."

"No, the rule only applies to surnames. Otherwise my brother would have had me killed years ago. Mind you, I wonder whether your upside-down 'M' makes you inherently good?"

"Such is why I am your room-mate- you needed my influence."


	13. Author's Note

Author's Note: I've edited the content of chapter 6, Shaken, Watson's POV so that the ending isn't as OOC. It has always bothered me and I just needed to be bothered enough to make it work. Thanks to the reviewers who pointed out the mistake, I got a bit carried away. Hope you all enjoy this, I'm going to post more often now, as I have eleven weeks to do nothing but write.


	14. Post

I look quietly through my post that morning. I do everything quietly nowadays- it's not as though I'd disturb anyone, but the rest of the room is so quiet in comparison. There isn't anyone else in it. The boy's out on an errand. It's just the old doctor and his post.

I sieve through the rubbish, pause out of vanity [there isn't anyone to see me] on an autograph request, consider whether my nails need trimming; proceed to a parcel I've been saving until the last. It has a familiar scrawl- all sharp vowels and long loops, and the crosses on the "t"s are comically long in both directions. It's Holmes.

I don't need to squeeze the parcel to know its contents, and when I carefully tip it out [don't want to break the glass], sure enough there is a pot of his latest honey. Probably better than the last batch, though I wouldn't know because I'm about three pots behind on honey consumption. There's only me to eat it.

On the inside of the envelope is a letter from him, and this is what I want much more than the honey- word from my friend. Even if I saw the man every weekend it would be a stark difference to how we used to live, and as a result I've begun to accept that I probably need him. Anyway, here's the letter.

My dear Watson!

Here's the latest batch of Sherlock's Finest, though you probably didn't taste the last. I do remember you preferred marmalade and tobacco for breakfast.

I'm coming down to London, not on any particular business, just to be back in town for a while. If you don't invite me to yours I shall be forced to camp.

Send my regards to the capital and Lestrade. I heard he's going to be made super [all hush-hush though I think].

Yours, S.H

"Fancy thinking he could invite himself over" said I, and broke the silence again, clattering for my best pen.


	15. Knights of Honour

Miss Burn was a suspicious young woman and had every right to be. Her story had made me ashamed of my sex, and she wished to break an engagement in the safest way possible. Though we understood our sensitive task, she wanted to make quite sure we did not abandon her.

"Are you sure you will return after speaking to my fiancé, considering it will be his word against mine?" she asked Holmes, who wore an expression that I knew to be of extreme pity, but was hidden to those who did not know quite so well, like his face were behind a sheet.

"It is not only you who has spoken, but the clues. I couldn't doubt your story if your fiancé was the Pope. We shall come back, I give you my word," she had gripped his arm and he flexed his fingers uncomfortably. She stared at Holmes, who met her gaze full on. "Watson, give her your word, too."

"Miss Burn, we shall return. I give you my word of honour."

"See, Miss Burn, my honour hasn't been broken but truthfully my word has, whereas Dr Watson's honour was born in the army and his word can't be. Between us, our oath is positively Arthurian."

"I hope you two knights will prove that chivalry is not mythical." She smiled and released Holmes, and soon we were on our way to fight for her cause.


	16. Is Not Life More Important?

Life is more than food and drink

Holmes wasn't in the mood to eat. I could see it, but our client, the hon. James Wildgoose, was completely unaware, though both of our plates were nearly empty. I think that a well placed vase of carnations obscured his view of Holmes' plate. Luckily age had mellowed Holmes a little and he realised that he was in a precariously indecorous position, though this recent understanding didn't by any means persuade him to change. It was as if eating would be one more task that could distract him from his purpose. The conversation was hard enough on him.

Whilst I spoke with the old soldier about his curious hobby of botany [of course he didn't garden practically, but he knew a lot about flowers], Holmes sighed and pushed his tiny portion of roast lamb [he had asked for the least he could get away with] about his plate, occasionally looking at me with an expression of pain.

After a while, however, our host got a telephone call and had to leave the room. Holmes looked at me entreatingly this time.

"If you would be so kind, Watson…"

"I've eaten nearly finished a full portion already!"

"Nobody will notice if you put on a little weight but I."

"And I suppose I'll lose it again through stress anyway."

"Now, look here, Watson, I never mean to worry you, and besides you are much less thin than I." I sighed and swapped plates with him.

"That is because I have had your supper more often than you-" Holmes had lifted his hand as a solicit of silence. The hon. James Wildgoose had come back with news from his telephone conversation.

I only worried that I had two sets of cutlery on my plate.


	17. As Long as I Have My Trousers

"_As long as I have my trousers, I have my hip-pocket, and as long as I have my hip-pocket, I have something in it." – _**a curious quote by Lestrade…**

Holmes didn't, in reality, mind my writing about his cases. In fact, occasionally he asked me to publish, much to my surprise. Usually, it was to publicise something specific, such as when I penned the case involving Professor Presbury, or even when I wrote about what at the time I had considered to be Holmes' last case. But rarely did he ask me to _write_ about one. He just knew I did it and took for granted that I always did it.

Once I was assaulted for my pocketbook, as it had contained some detailed accounts of our case [it was ours- Holmes had said as much]. I was knocked down and my coat was stripped off me. Of course Holmes sprinted after the men who did it, and endeavoured to display some of his history as a champion boxer, and of course he was a bit too old and thin to debase two thirty-somethings.

I dusted myself off, having got back to consciousness, and stood up to see Holmes curled up in a ball, clutching my coat with two men kicking him. I'll admit that one had a nosebleed, and the other was dirty from the floor, but it still wasn't an encouraging sight. I took out my revolver and cocked it. The men turned and paused in beating my skinny friend to a pulp.

I cleared my throat threateningly. "In my jacket, I have my breast pocket, and in my breast pocket, I have something close to my heart, which is the thing I am most likely to reach for. I don't have my jacket right now. The only pockets I have now are my hip-pockets, which are closer to something else, something that makes me less good-natured on occasion. Coincidentally, in my hip-pocket, I keep my gun. It's probably a bad idea, isn't it?" Holmes laughed, and one man turned to kick him again. I shot into the air next to his assailant, which had the desired effect of making them both flee.


	18. Pride

I lay on the ground and eased out of my ammonite impression, slowly. I was sure immediately that I had broken several things. Watson knelt down next to me and peered at my face anxiously. He ignored the rag that held copious amounts of my blood from my nose.

"Watson, my rib's broken," I said after a moment. His fingers shook as he undid my buttons.

"Are you all right to sit up, do you think?"

"Yes." I heaved myself up so I was cross-legged. It hurt. My friend's eyes looked wounded themselves for a moment as he opened my shirt to reveal purpled skin under my greying chest hair. I felt very old for a moment, seeing at myself under Watson's tanned hands. I was brought of my reverie by a fierce sigh from Watson.

"You're right, Holmes. We must get you home. I can't believe this has happened…" He looked up at me and wiped my face with his shirt cuff, giving me an intense look of fear, as if he thought me too fragile to touch. Then he straightened my collar, quivering. I didn't feel patronised. I knew he was trying to shield my pride. Then he surprised me with an action so remorseful and tender I couldn't move for a moment. His hands gripped my upper arms and his head collapsed into my shoulder, holding me quite close.

Uncomfortable as I was initially at this awkwardly positioned embrace, I was stirred by a feeling of genuine affection for the man I'd known longer than I hadn't. I was slow to remove his warm hands from me. "Watson, we should go." He stood up and helped me, then for the smallest of moments looked at his coat. It didn't have the notebook in it. But had I blinked, I would not have seen. Instead, he held his head high and slipped his arm through mine and we began to walk out onto Oxford Street.

I hesitated a moment. "Watson, you don't have your pocketbook."

"We'll get it back. And if not, I'll write some new stories anyway." He pulled me along, looking down for a moment before meeting my eyes.

"I'm ashamed of myself," I muttered. It was true.

Watson's stride went out of pace with my own for a second, and his mouth opened slightly as he considered. "I'm proud of you," he said, and he pulled his arm around mine tighter before he spotted a cab with our name on it.


	19. Orphans

Mrs Hudson died.

Though neither of us cried, we didn't go out that day, afraid that somebody might see our grief and… what? Think it inappropriate for two men who weren't her sons but her lodgers? We didn't dare ask one another whether we were any more than that, though we both considered _her_ more than just a landlady. The conversation circled this topic and similar ones like a ceaseless vulture around the corpse we both had seen.

When she got the pain in her left arm she called our names, from the verge of death, not because Watson is [for he remains in present tense] a doctor, not because we were only one's there, but because we were a family of sorts. I kneeled, making fists in Watson's clothes like a young boy, and he held her, taking the responsibility of the older brother. Though we'd never been her sons before, as the blood coursed through her for the last time, it could have been ours.


End file.
